#prompt cemetery

[gummybearstastelikesadness]

Danny going around cleaning up headstones and placks in cemeteries and graveyards. Graveyards and cemetery’s are considered the resting places for the dead, so when he’s there he just super relaxed and safe feeling.

That’s how he meets superheroes/vigilantes/antiheroes/villains/civilians/side characters from different cities.

He just gives them advice on mourning and basically lends them an ear or shoulder for a few days before he goes to the next cemetery.

Eventually Danny runs into one of the Bat fam in a Gotham cemetery and they ask him what he’s doing, he’s completely distracted in a really calm state from the dead resting place vibes and says something cryptic about even empty graves deserving care while cleaning up a grave.

Right in-front of Jason’s grave.

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 25 / 31 * THE HONEYMOONERS 」

[Date Unknown] 1985A Timeline

Five…six…seven…

Thunder booms, rattling Heaven and Earth with its might. Count the seconds between the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder and it'll tell you how far away the storm is.

Two miles, maybe.

It feels like it's right on top of them.

The ground shakes beneath them, rattling her bones so hard she can feel it in her teeth, and rather than run for cover, she turns to George sitting on the grass beside her, pressed up against a rock, and nestles closer.

“It feels like every time we try and do something, there’s a terrible storm.” Lorraine smiles, but it never reaches her eyes. “Our first dance, our honeymoon—don’t you remember?”

Sighing, Lorraine closes her eyes, losing herself to the grainy film reel of memory rolling behind her eyes. Even soaked to the bone, his clothes clinging awkwardly to him, George was a vision—a dream—and his almost pathetic wet puppy-dog expression made her heart soar. “By the time we got to the hotel, we were soaked. You nearly walked into the door; you couldn’t see anything with your hair in your eyes like that! I had to keep brushing your bangs out of your eyes while you carried our bags.”

George smiles, indulging the trip down memory lane with a gentle squeeze to her hand. He’s cold again, Lorraine thinks distantly—he’s been terribly cold lately, as if the sun has refused to touch him, angry with him for some perceived slight against it—but that doesn’t bother her.

She’ll keep warm enough for both of them. Light that fire in her chest and her stomach and stoke it until he leaches every ounce of warmth through her fingers for himself and his cheeks glow with it.

It’s all for him, anyway.

“That was one of the happiest nights of my life. I can’t believe you thought you ruined it just because of a storm. ‘We must be cursed, Lorraine,’ you told me, and I thought that was one of the most ridiculous things I'd ever heard. Even more ridiculous than when you told me about Darth Vader.”

“But that—”

“Really happened, I know. I believed you.”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually.” Lorraine chokes on the laugh she tries to force out. The first drops of rain pelt her cheeks and she uses her free hand to furiously wipe them away, ignoring the stinging sensation on her skin.

“We should go inside—the storm’s coming. You’ll get soaked.”

Lorraine shakes her head furiously, squeezing George’s hand so tight her nails bite deep into her palms, drawing blood. The wind sighs as it whips her messy hair around her head, knowing there is no changing her mind.

“I don’t care about the rain. I like sitting out here with you. It’ll be just like all the other times, won’t it, George?”

Just like all the other times.

Just like last time.

A second wave of burning rain bites at her cheeks and George lets go of her hand to gently drag his thumb across her cheek. Lorraine chokes back another sob, her shoulders trembling with the effort it takes to keep herself composed.

Her cheeks are still burning. The earth smells like petrichor.

The next crack of thunder shatters her composure, leaving her ears ringing. Lorraine’s shaky fingers fumble at her pocket as she curls her fingers around the crystal clear flame protected within, sloshing around in its container.

George never did get wet when it rained.

[roamingtigress]

Yeehawgust - Day Ten - Undead Cowboy

(Dutchy got into the special effects and thinks he's a movie star. Hosea tried telling him that it's a little early for Halloween but he wasn't having any of it.)

[deepdreamnights]

Grave, Tender

The image(s) above in this post were made using an autogenerated prompt and/or have not been modified/iterated extensively. As such, they do not meet the minimum expression threshold, and are in the public domain. Prompt under the fold.

Prompt: A large cemetery with several tombstones under a cloudy sky in a dark fantasy style in the style of Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli's anime style.:: A red-haired woman with blue eyes in an open black robe looks at the camera, stands against the background of a dark forest and orange smoke in the style of Moebius, Katsuhiro Otomo, and Jean Giraud

[thepenultimateword]

Spooktober Prompt #18

[A] slowly followed the pale outline of their guide. Their translucent boots touch the earth but did not bend a single blade of grass, and [A] couldn’t tell if the lantern in their hand was actually lit or if the glow was from their incorporeal body alone.

“Here we are.”

[A] jerked to a stop, barely stopping their next step before they tumbled through their guide’s button vest and white flame eyes. They jerked their rude stare away from the ghost’s face and to the grave in front of them instead.

“Th-thank you.”

The ghost only dipped its head and motioned to a little silver bell with a handle shaped like a winged angel. “Ring the bell once to summon the grave’s resident. Twice to send it back. Three times of you need me.”

[A]’s stomach squeezed. “Er…is there a reason I would need you?”

“To return to the entrance of course.”

“Oh. Right! Of course! Very dark out here.”

“Or if you can’t get it to go back,” the ghostly undertaker added, their words disappearing on the same gust of wind that carried their suddenly vaporous form away.

[willowwormwood]

I've never tried drawing them before so I decided to try out isometric room designs for each of the Drawtober prompts! This is for the first prompt, overgrown cemetery

[writerswho]

Florist and tattoo artist au, where Wednesday works in her family flower shop and Enid just started working in the tattoo studio next door. 

[cody-helix02]

My entry for @almost-a-class-act spooky prompt list lol....I know it says war is helloween but I forgot that woops...ANYWAYS....also zoom in on da phone lol

Prompt 2: A shortcut through the cemetery at night.

[ggomos-maribat]

A young Jason Todd dusted off the headstone with his calloused hands. He could hear giggles echoing left and right as a little girl ran around, picking up stray petals off the ground. "Marinette," he called out to his little sister. "Don't run off too far." 

Marinette merely laughed out loud, moving over to another headstone to sprinkle petals over it. 

"Do you like the cemetery, Pixie?" Jason gave a sad smile. 

"I like it 'cause Jay Jay's here," Marinette replied. 

"It's not exactly a happy place." 

"It is if I say so," she huffed. 

The girl moved over to where Jason was sitting, offering him a small flower crown of her creation. Jason bowed so she could put it on top of his head. Marinette grinned toothily at the sight of her brother, the delicate flowers contrasting his rugged appearance. 

"Are you okay?" Marinette asked when she suddenly saw tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. 

"Yes," he breathed out. "It's just . . . You're really a ray of sunshine, aren't you? Or do you just not know?" 

"Know what?" 

He shook his head, as if dismissing the thought. "Nevermind. Want me to read you a story?" 

"Right now?" Marinette wrinkled her nose. 

"Of course. Here, I brought your favorite storybook." 

Marinette listened in earnest as Jason started reading to her. He got the character voices just right, making her snort out laughs at each dialogue spoken out loud. 

"Thanks for reading to me, Jay." 

"Next time I'll bring another storybook?" 

"Mmkay." 

The second Jason shut the book, he vanished all of a sudden. Marinette looked around, blinking in confusion. "Jay? Jay Jay?" 

Her tiny hands balled into fists when she realized that her brother was nowhere to be found. The girl sniffed, panicking at the disappearance of her companion. She repeatedly yelled out his name, eyes darting around the cemetery to look for Jason. 

And as she stood up from her spot to search for him, the headstone was left behind once more, still bearing the words she couldn't read by herself: Here lies Jason Peter Todd, a great soldier. 

[calaathmaza]

My brain instantly went "thariana grande" when I read your post lmao. As for prompts how about them slow dancing? Or they finally get photograped together? Or thara wearing one of iana's shirts and it looks comically oversized on him?

bang bang into tha rooooom

ID: a simple sketch comic of iäna pel thenhior and thara celehar from the cemeteries of amalo series. iäna is a goblin-elven man with pointed ears, piled locs, and a long face. in the first panel he's smiling and saying "i'm home, love!" a door visible behind him. in the next panel on the other side of the room thara is seen from behind. he is an elf with pointed ears and a short braid. he's wearing what looks like a too-big nightgown. some furniture is visible behind him. he turns around, arms swinging out by his sides, and written on the front of the gown is "iäna shirt." in the next panel, iäna blushes with an adoring expression, hands coming up to his face, "omg <3" written next to him. the final panel cuts back to thara in the same pose, who says, "what." end ID

[animar64]

Silas and Lizzie

RDP Friday: TIME Photo A.M. MoscosoRiverside Memorial ParkFox Lake WIOctober 2023 She was somebody’s Mom, he was somebody’s Dad Lizzie and Silas, no last name resting side by side under  a forest of crispy, cold green grass. I wonder what color his eyes were, I wonder if she liked to bake cookies, I wonder they liked dogs and if they ever traveled to Canada or Mexico or maybe even Hawaii. Lizzie…

[prompts-cemetery]

Unchosen one 01

The unchosen one discovers that their lack of powers or special abilities is actually a rare gift that allows them to navigate and manipulate the magical world in a way that nobody else can.

[huxloween]

Huxloween 2023, Day 14

October 14 has double prompts. Choose from Pumpkin or Cemetery, or do both! 

Time to carve? Time to decorate? Time for a sweet treat? Or is it the only illumination in a dark field of bodies? What lurks between the rows late at night?

Post to your own blog and tag us with #huxloween and @huxloween,  submit your work directly to the Huxloween blog,  @ us on Twitter, or use  #huxloween on Bluesky!

View all the Huxloween 2023 prompts here.

Universal Ask Box

Huxloween 2023 AO3 collection

[baladric]

for the flash fic, keeping in line with last night's question, thara celehar in the pirate au, like just whatever he's up to, also no pressure to do this if you would need to consult with someone else to do so

okay LISTEN i hope you jive with the idea of thara fleeing the ethuveraz to neighboring celvaz as a result of the wild fucking xenophobia/bigotry that's risen in the ethuveraz after the war that broke out over maia's disappearance, bc i was desperately possessed of the need to play with him accidentally getting tangled up with faeries. also this is long so i'm read more'ing

*

"The trouble is the house," said Colum Walsh. He was a rustic painting of a man, somewhat squat and hardy looking with the odd, rounded ears and brilliantly red hair of the Cel. He was of the age when one's skin begins to yield to life as the earth yields to the long-trod destiny path, and though I found his doddery ebullience and the volume of his voice to be tiring, I still found in myself a certain regret for the incontrovertible evidence of a life of sorrow and stress in this man's newly lined face. He was kind in a way that asked only for listening ears, and had I any power over the ways of the wider world, I would have wished for him a gentler life than it seemed he had lived.

"So you've said," I replied, prompting him as I watched my feet on the uneven path we took through a thin copse of trees. I would have preferred the main thoroughfare, but Mr. Walsh was the concept of hurry made manifest, and so I had permitted him the use of his chosen shortcut from pub to our destination—which was, I saw at a glance through a break in the trees, a cottage of the Celvadeise style, bare stone with a gabled, wood-shingled roof and windows of a thick, untempered glass. From here, I could see that the garden though clearly once carefully cultivated, had sprung its bonds and sprawled into a mess of overgrown mint and rosemary and the odd native creeper.

"You know about brownies, of course," Mr. Walsh said, stepping over a jutting tree root with the unthinking ease of long habit, and crossing thence beyond the edge of the little wood.

"Hearth spirits of a sort," I said, taking a bit more care with the root myself. "Transactional, but loyal."

"Aye," he said. "Though I wouldn't call them spirits, really, if you'll forgive me saying so, mer. Language is tricksy with the Fair Folk, you know—they're so quick to offense, makes you want to be specific, you ken?"

I knew the sort, though I did not say so. Cels, I had learned, were wary of discussion of elves, and the more time I spent beyond the borders of my native Ethuveraz, the deeper my understanding went. It was a cold, tricksome, conditional land when juxtaposed with the heathery moors and rolling green of Celvaz, and its fiery and forthright people.

"Hearth fey, then," I said. "You believe your brownies have turned?"

We had reached the little gate at the edge of the property, and here, Mr. Walsh paused.

"It's the oddest thing," he said, his voice turning thoughtful. "Not unheard of, really, but it takes a foolhardy few months of neglect for one as old as this to go off, and I've not missed a full moon's offering or a solstice gift in... Stones below, it's got to be something like decades."

That was curious, I thought, and drew up beside him to study the house.

Only an hour ago, ensconsced in the warm, dimly lit pub at the center of Bisby Town, he had told me that his house had begun falling apart a little over a month ago. In light of the time frame, I had expected the scruffy garden, of course, perhaps a certain ricketiness of window boxes, a fallen shingle or two.

Colum Walsh's house, however, was on its knees in the creeper. The window sashes sagged apocalyptically, the broad paving stones of the little path rocked and cracked with marauding weeds. Far from the anticipated shedding of shingles were the signs of wood rot in the roof. From just this quick assessment, I guessed with a great deal of concern that the rot had extended into the crossbeams supporting the roof from the inside, and that the structure itself was likely in danger of collapsing in on itself. One window had clearly been covered from the inside with a sheet, for the panes had shattered entirely, and the one on the far side of the peeling sun-yellow door looked to not be far behind it.

Which was to say that it was the sort of disrepair that took years, not a single month.

I did not realize I was being studied in turn until Mr. Walsh spoke, a wry sort of amusement in his voice.

"That bad, huh?"

I cleared my throat, and took a moment to refit my tongue to the rounded burr of Celvadeise; though I had been in the country for nearly three years, I was still not what I would call fluent. It did not help matters that I could feel my Ethuverazhin slipping away under the constancy of this new language—a turn that bothered me far more than I liked—and so I had been taking some care to at least think in my mother tongue. And if I occasionally spoke Ethuverazhin to the cats that tended to find me wherever I was, well, that was nobody's business but my own.

"I can see what has you so worried," I said simply. With a gesture at the gate upon which Mr. Walsh had rested his hand, I continued. "May I see it closer?"

Mr. Walsh lept to action, swinging the gate wide and ushering me through with an excited trickle of words. We walked the perimeter together, him pointing out the myriad damages to structure and property alike while I, maintaining my silence, began ever so gently to expand my senses to the particular frequency of the Fair Folk.

To say it had been a surprise the first time a fairy spoke to me would be understating the matter significantly. For while I am nothing if not accustomed to the communion of spirits outside myself, it had never extended beyond the realm of the dead—and the recently dead, at that. I was not a maza, nor was I anything like the folkloric clairvoyants one used to hear about from the Barizheise sometimes, in the days before the Three Years' War.

I had been in Celvaz only a month, the first time, having talked my way (pantomimed, really, for I had only known a few interrogatives in the native tongue at that point, and, embarrassingly, the word for weasel) into a barter with a moderately forgiving farmer—maintenance work on his dairy barn in exchange for two meals a day and a spot to sleep in the hay loft. It was hard, dreary work, but I had begun to adjust to it and find new patterns to tread through my days.

One of these rituals had been long, rambling walks past the borders of the farmer's land. The rolling hills went gold and purple with the sunset, and though I had never been one for the pastoral, I found in those spare, glowing minutes a kind of peace that had been absent from my life for as long as I could remember.

It was one of those evenings, the sun having just dipped below the horizon, though it still lit the sky with rich godfingers of colors for which I lacked proper names, when I tripped over a hummock of raised earth and toppled right into a faerie's burrow.

What followed was a dizzying flurry of curses I could not even hope to follow in a strange language, the startling prickle of something like static lightning washing over me, and finally, the extraction of a promise—an eventuality against which, I realized later, I had been thoroughly warned already.

You can see me, can hear me, can tread in the shadows I walk—and so you will help me and raise not a fight against me or my kin when we come in the night—or the day, for the Fey don't go away like they say is the way of the ones who burn up in the rays of the great glowing dawn. Oh, don't make that face, you try rhyming all the time, Mer Elf.

And so, to my great humiliation, I found himself to be a cautionary tale: Unwary foreigner pacted in service to the Fey.

And so, here I stood, doing my duty in the laying of my hand against the unreasonably cold stone of the decaying house.

Mr. Walsh prattled in the background, having not yet noticed my stillness, and I pressed all thought of him to the back of my mind as I sank into the immaterial essence of the place that spoke to the long presence of a faerie.

The brownie did not notice me at first, which proved itself a boon, as it gave me time to brace for the cacophony that crashed into me the instant I entered its awareness.

There were no words here, not at first—simply anger and a great deal more of that prickling which I had come to recognize as the particular maz of the Fair Folk. I took care to remain quiescent and let the storm of emotion wash over me, for it was not so different an experience from the communion with a person who had died in rage. And, in time, it passed, and the brownie drew back enough to observe.

I opened my eyes, and there she stood: golden brown skin, dark hair made lush with curls and tufty braids looped with beads and ribbons and tattered bits of lace. As with most Fey I had seen, her eyes were unnervingly large, a startling purple in her heart-shaped face. She grimaced at me in the way of a snarl, a neat rack of jagged teeth, sharp as vinegar.

"Who?" she asked, her voice a crackling thing, full of eons of cookfires stoked high.

Having learned my lesson, I bowed nearly as deeply as I would to the Emperor himself, and said, "I am called Celehar."

Those great eyes narrowed.

"The Witness," she said.

"Yes," I said. "I am here on behalf of the man whose home you share. He would like to know how he can regain your favor, madam."

*

It was not quite like awakening when I came back to myself, but I had no other word for it.

Time had passed in my absence, night settling fully around my ears and a chill creeping through the sturdy wool of my coat. I blinked, and found Mr. Walsh fidgeting from the seat he had taken on the crumbling garden wall. He jolted to his feet when I cleared my throat, his eyes wide, face a pale moon in the darkness.

"Mer Celehar!" he said, hurrying to me with outstretched hands. I allowed him to touch my arm before easing away.

"She doesn't like the milkweed," I said, sounding exactly as thirsty as I was; the single ale I had allowed myself at the pub had been hours ago.

"The... milkweed?" Bafflement was an unflattering look on Mr. Walsh, his eyes bugging out and mouth gaping to show a few missing teeth and the gold of what must have been an extremely costly filling.

"It brought butterflies last year," I said. "Monarchs. Her family has had a feud with their kind for..." I closed my eyes. "Oh, some long stretch of eons. She does not want them to come back."

Mr. Walsh blinked.

"Butterflies," he said.

"Butterflies," I echoed, and after a long pause, we were both helpless to do anything but laugh.

[ruby-lith]

Day 4

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 209

Adjective: Voracious

Noun: Churchyard

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Voracious: wanting or devouring great quantities of food; having a very eager approach to an activity

Churchyard: an enclosed area surrounding a church, especially as used for burials